by Kris Tualla
“I am not playing a game here, Reid!” he shouted. “Move to safety!”
James rolled further under the floor and Reid followed suit. He faced the opening and tried to discern what was happening.
The trees he could see began to bend in unison, changing directions as one. Some leaned impossibly, others snapped like twigs with deafening cracks.
Hail bounced off the packed dirt beyond their shelter and pelted the floor boards above them so loudly that Reid covered his ears tightly with both palms. Though he expected rain to follow the hail, none fell as yet.
A booming wind shook the boards above him for several long minutes, until Reid feared that all of his hard work might take wing and fly away.
Finally, with a final whoosh, the world calmed.
The hail stopped. The wind settled. The trees halted their frantic dance.
Reid rolled over and looked at James. “What in helvete was that?”
“Tornado,” he replied. “Go on, we can get out now.”
Reid turned back and shimmied his way out from under the floor. The world he faced was drastically changed from the one he left behind less than half an hour ago. He twirled in a slow circle, taking stock.
The three horses cowered on the ground, snorting and tossing their manes in angry protest. Thank God they were alive and appeared unhurt.
His stack of floorboards had been upended, but none were broken that he could see. Thank God again.
The forest around his clearing was littered with downed trees.
“You can use them for your walls,” James suggested as he stood next to Reid. “If they broke off long enough.
Reid nodded, still stunned. “And the dead wood I’ll chop for firewood…”
James climbed over the foundation’s rectangle barricade. “I’ll go see how I fared.”
Reid stumbled after his friend and grabbed his arm. “Is this what all tornadoes are like?”
James gave a little shrug. “Some never touch the ground, so they are no more than extremely strong winds. When they do touch the ground, they can destroy anything in their way.”
Reid looked around him again, searching for clues he must learn to recognize. “And this one?
James pointed to a newly cleared patch of forest about twenty-five yards to the southwest of Reid’s house. “Touched there.”
He turned toward the road and another downed grove. “Maybe there. Or that may have been a stand of dying trees that succumbed on their own.”
“Skitt.” Reid muttered. “Skitt skitt skitt.”
“Shite, indeed,” James agreed having successfully understood the word. “Now do you believe me?”
Reid nodded slowly, his gaze still moving with disbelief over the devastation. “How often do these storms occur?”
“It’s hard to predict,” James admitted. “And they come on so fast. But in my experience they occur mostly in the spring and mostly in the late afternoon.”
That answer was only marginally helpful. “But how often should I expect this sort of thing?” Reid pressed.
James looked him in the eye. “Perhaps four or five times a season? I cannot be certain, but that seemed the average in North Carolina.”
Reid snorted. “Well I, for one, have made a decision.”
“What is that?” James asked.
Reid raked his fingers through his disheveled hair. “My house shall be built of quarried stone. With a heavy slate roof.”
“As will mine,” James concurred. “As will mine.”
June 19, 1782
James’ knees bounced the whole way to St. Louis as he fidgeted on the wagon seat and drove Reid batty.
“What if she’s not there?” Reid asked. “Will we wait for her?”
James turned rounded eyes and a lifted brow toward him. “Would you mind?”
Reid wanted to say yes, I would mind. The walls of his house were up and the slanted roof in place. He just laid the last of the sod on it yesterday afternoon. But he had no door as yet. Nor a well dug. Nor a corral or shelter for his horses.
Nor a privy.
And yet, James had become a very good friend. Kind and generous and very good company. If the tables were turned, Reid would certainly wish to wait for his own wife to arrive.
“No, not at all,” he said. “If need be, I can always walk back.”
James relaxed a bit. “I appreciate it, Reid. Thank you.”
Reid smiled, though the emptiness in his heart echoed with every steady beat.
God, bless Kirsten. Give her peace.
In an occurrence which Reid felt was a blessing to himself as much as James, the men discovered upon their arrival that Beatrice and the entire Atherton household had arrived in St. Louis two days earlier.
A keelboat loaded with furniture and household goods had been unloaded into a warehouse to be stored until James’ new house reached a sufficient level of construction to make the final transfer. His slaves still waited aboard a second boat until he would lead them to the property. Reid tried his best not to make any telling faces or disparaging comments. He would, after all, reap a twenty-percent benefit from the darkies’ labors.
Beatrice and one of her maids were ensconced in the hotel.
“Darling!” James enthused when he saw her.
Beatrice was a curvy woman with rich, auburn hair. Her eyes were a clear blue to James’ warm brown. Her head tucked neatly under James’ chin when he embraced her.
Reid stayed back, not wanting to intrude on the couple’s reunion.
When James seemed to remember his presence, he turned happy eyes to Reid. “Dearest, may I introduce our neighbor, and my friend, Reidar Hansen?”
Beatrice extended a gloved hand as her slow gaze covered Reid tip to toe. “It is quite a pleasure, Mister Hansen.”
“Please call me Reid, madam, as we are to be neighbors for life,” Reid said. He accepted her hand and pressed it to his lips.
“A gentleman!” she approved, looking at James with a bit of surprise in her expression. “And here I thought we’d be among scoundrels and natives.”
One corner of Reid’s mouth curved. “You don’t know me as yet, madam. Perhaps you should withhold judgment,” he quipped.
James laughed.
When he did, Beatrice’s initial shock at Reid’s words dissipated. She withdrew her hand.
“Mister Hansen—Reid—I see you will keep us all on our toes.” She gave him an impish grin and tapped his arm with her folded fan. “Until I decide otherwise, you may call me Beatrice.”
Reid bowed at the waist. “Welcome to the Missouri Territory, Beatrice. This land is most certainly enhanced by your bountiful beauty.”
James chuckled at Reid’s playfulness and smacked his shoulder. “Get your own wife, Hansen. This one’s mine.”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
June 20, 1782
Philadelphia
Kirsten slammed the door to her room. Yet another suitor was invited for dinner.
Since she sent Reid away four months ago, the invitations and paraded possibilities had increased in frequency. Some of the men came from New York or New Jersey as her mother cast an ever-widening net.
Most of them were perfectly fine gentlemen; it wasn’t their fault that Kirsten had no interest. Yet as willful and outspoken as she was about not marrying, her protestations fell on deaf ears where her mother was concerned. Continuing the royal line meant everything to Marit. And Kirsten’s stubbornness had met both its source and its counterpart in her mother’s.
Kirsten sank into a chair. She pulled an embroidered linen handkerchief from her pocket and began to mop the tears that flooded her eyes. For the last four months she quite often burst into tears for insignificant reasons such as this one. Carrying the handkerchiefs became a habit as a result.
More and more, however, she knew that her battle was a futile one.
No man was ever likely to win her heart, now that it was completely claimed and broken. Kirsten had locked that door wh
en she sent Reid away, and she knew the key could never be found by another.
Oddly, that fact made the prospect of marriage a bit less abhorrent. Perhaps she should set her fears aside and truly consider the options which lay before her.
Because Kirsten was completely exhausted, both in her heart and in her soul. Looking ahead to another half-a-decade or more of her mother’s matchmaking attempts made her want to saw her wrists open with a dull knife. She simply did not have the strength to withstand such an assault for much longer.
So—what is actually at stake here?
All she it would take to make her mother truly happy was a child. If she didn’t love the man who bedded her, she needed only to close her eyes, grab the mattress, and let him try to impregnate her once a month.
She could give him a length of time, say twelve months, to accomplish the deed before she shunned him from her bed. If she didn’t conceive, at least she could truthfully tell her parents she tried.
After that, her husband could take a mistress and Kirsten would live in peace. Perhaps they would be lucky after all, and she would birth a child to spoil and coddle and give her life some purpose. Miracles did happen.
Kirsten’s handkerchief was soaked and her eyes began to ache. There was no snow to pack against them this time of year, only a cloth with cool water. She rang for her maid and ordered willowbark tea. In one hour she must dress for dinner, until then she would remain alone with her new thoughts.
*****
Emil Helland waited with her parents in the drawing room. He came to supper alone. Kirsten judged him to be past forty by the grayed edges of his light brown hair, but thought his age sat well on him. He was fastidiously clean and tidily dressed, though Kirsten noticed frayed edges on the cuffs of his frockcoat and a faint stain on the lace ruff of his shirt.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mister Helland,” she said with a small dip of her chin.
“Lord Helland,” he said in a smooth tenor tone. “My father was the Baron of Odense.”
Kirsten’s eyes flicked to her mother who stood beaming beside Emil. “So you are Danish?” she asked, regarding him once again.
He bent slightly at the waist. “I am, my lady.”
“Lord Helland’s father was a second cousin to my brother’s first wife.” Marit offered the pedigree as if it were the wax seal on a marriage contract.
Kirsten cocked a brow. “Danish and with royal connections? Why have we not met sooner, I wonder?”
“Lord Helland is a widower, Kirsten.” Marit gave the man a sympathetic smile. “His wife passed away three years ago.”
“I’m so sorry, Lord Helland. Do you have children?” Kirsten asked.
“No, sad to say,” Emil replied. “My wife was a few years older than I and unable to produce any offspring as it turned out.”
“I certainly hope I would have better luck,” Kirsten blurted before adding, “But that’s in God’s hands.”
Her face heated at her blatant honesty. If she was to finally accept a man as her husband, then his virility was a factor. Twelve months. That was all she was willing to give.
Emil Helland smiled wistfully. “I would hope so as well.”
Henrik cleared his throat. “Shall we move to the dining room?”
Emil offered his arm. Kirsten accepted. He wasn’t as tall or as muscled as Reid was, but his frame was trim and not flabby. That was helpful.
Comparing every man she met to Reid Hansen, however, was not. If she made her parents’ dreams come true and accepted Emil Helland, that was a habit she needed to break immediately—or she might truly go insane.
The small party of four moved to the table. Emil held her chair and then took the seat across from her. He smiled at her with an odd glint in his eye. If she read it right, he seemed to indicate a shared understanding of what was really going on here. Kirsten was intrigued.
“Hvor lenge har du vært i Amerika?” she asked. How long have you been in America?
“Mesteparten av livet mitt. Jeg ble født her,” he answered without pause. Most of my life. I was born here.
“Have you visited Denmark, then?” she continued in English.
Emil nodded. “When I was in my early twenties I lived with one of my cousins there for several years while I attended university.”
“Why did you return?”
A shadow flicked over Emil’s brow. “He died.”
“And so you came home,” Kirsten posited. “And then you married.”
“Exactly,” he concurred. “My wife and I enjoyed ten companionable years together before the smallpox took her from me.”
“And now Lord Helland is looking to make another happy connection,” Marit stated.
Kirsten considered the man across her table. There was nothing objectionable about his person. He certainly wasn’t leering at her salaciously as some of the prospective suitors had, and yet his attention was focused solely on her. Those were both positive marks on his side.
She made a decision. “I have organized a charity ball for tomorrow evening, Lord Helland. I do not as yet have an escort.”
“I would be honored to accompany you, Lady Sven,” he replied.
Kirsten nodded. “Thank you, lord Helland. Under the circumstance that we are, in all probability, some sort of distant relation, you may call me Kirsten.”
The man gave her a genuine smile. “Please, call me Emil.”
Kirsten sipped her wine and glanced at her mother.
Marit was so puffed up and ruddy with glee, Kirsten was afraid the woman would explode.
At least one of us is happy.
June 21, 1782
Kirsten refused to admit it to herself, but once Reid was gone from her life some of her enthusiasm for her charities on behalf of the Continental Army soldiers had dimmed. Reid was right when he told her she was doing it for him, but that only spurred her to keep up her efforts. She hated to believe she could be so self-absorbed and shallow in her philanthropic pursuits.
Even so, this might be the last ball she arranged. The amount of work which went into them was overwhelming her now. If she married Emil Helland then no point remained for continuing.
Marit fluttered around her, making certain her dark blue gown was smoothed to perfection, and her hair pinned as high as it could be made to go. All the while, chattering happily about what a nice man Emil was.
Kirsten finally grabbed her mother’s hands and stilled them. “Mamma, please calm down. You are driving me to distraction!”
Marit’s shoulders relaxed. “I only want you to be happy, Datter. This may be your chance.”
Kirsten appreciated that her mother didn’t say it may be her last chance, though Kirsten knew the woman was thinking it.
“I shall give him the opportunity to win me over, Mamma. The rest is up to him,” she cautioned.
*****
Kirsten noticed the ball’s attendees noticing her. For the first time at any of her events she arrived on the arm of a gentleman, one who was clearly contending for her attentions. She watched other people’s reactions, using them as a barometer for her own judgments.
Curiosity was a clear winner, as she expected it to be, but that was a neutral response and had nothing to do with the man himself. What she watched for was any sort of revulsion, disgust, or disdain. Any reluctance to interact with Lord Helland, or telling glances once someone did. No matter what her situation, Kirsten would not align herself with someone whom her society spurned.
Thus far, all was well.
She also evaluated women’s responses to Emil as a man. Did they flirt a little? Were they attracted to him? Kirsten encouraged him to dance with other women, claiming that as the hostess’s counterpart it was his duty to assure no woman was left without gaining attention at some point in the evening.
Emil complied with her request without complaint. In fact, he sought out the homeliest of the single women and begged them to partner with him for the next song. He was smooth, genteel, engaging, and k
ind. The man was making points, there was no doubt about it.
Kirsten tried to shift the direction of her thoughts to a more personal one. She regarded Emil and wondered if he might ever win her love.
A stab of physical pain accompanied that consideration as her heart thumped its objection. There was only room for Reid, and the soldier filled every corner of her affections. The best any man could ever hope to gain from her was companionable friendship.
My wife and I enjoyed ten companionable years together…
The sudden realization that perhaps Emil expected nothing more from marriage than that lit her mood like a lamp turned to its highest flame. If that expectation proved true, then Kirsten might be able to tolerate matrimony with the man.
She glanced over the dance floor until she saw him, smiling down into a dowager’s eyes as he led her through the dance steps without visible effort. The woman was clearly smitten in a way Kirsten never could be. Perhaps that wasn’t going to be a problem after all.
*****
Kirsten had picked Emil up from his hotel in her own carriage and now, at the end of the evening, she dropped him off there. It was certainly unconventional, yet consummately practical. The man didn’t seem to mind.
He sat on the seat across from her during the short ride, appearing relaxed and comfortable. He complimented her on the exquisite decorations, fabulous food, and talented musicians.
“And your gown is breathtaking, I must say,” he added. “Where did you have it made?”
“Celeste’s,” she answered, surprised to be asked. “Do you know it?”
Emil chuckled. “No. But if I ever live in Philadelphia for any reason, I’ll want to be familiar with the most competent seamstresses and tailors.”
Kirsten pondered the way he phrased that statement. “How have you found Philadelphia thus far?” she probed.
He tilted his head and gazed at her in the dim light. “I see possibilities, most definitely. I am encouraged.”
